


Shadow of Death, Part I of Troubling the Waters

by DizzyChickStar



Series: Troubling the Waters [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Humor, Origin Story, Other, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Water Spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyChickStar/pseuds/DizzyChickStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie finds a way to communicate with her ancestor, the one she and Crane found frozen in stone.  Through dreams and stories, she uncovers their shared past, and must confront her present in order to defeat a new evil.  Jenny, Crane, and Big Ash feature prominently as do original characters.  There is some mention of a slave ship in parts of this story, but the details are intentionally sparse and are only included as they pertain to plot.  This is the first in a series, depending on my muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains some Mdinka, Mende, Gullah translations and one or two Shawnee names. My research there consists of reading online articles and visiting various websites. I apologize in advance for any mistranslations or if any of my depictions are offensive in any way.
> 
> I wrote this story as though I were telling it to myself, creating something I'd like to read. I hope you enjoy it. I am so stoked to be a part of the most passionate, creative fandom out there and without this forum, I wouldn't have a place to share the callings of my muse;)

_“Wade in the water,_  
_Wade in the water, children,_  
_Wade in the water, God’s going to trouble the water.”_ Negro Spiritual

_Chronos, Mid Atlantic, 1657_

     Alongside the young girl chained to her, Neata jumped in tandem, her unnatural movements a gruesome ruse to beat back lethargy and gloom borne of wicked circumstance. Unlike her fellow prisoners to the right and left of her, her head remained upright. Her muted amber eyes were focused, clear, and righteously angry. Her proud neck and unbowed body became a weapon, an arrow set to fly. Her steps and leaps composed a dangerous message, a defiant one that would attract the wrong kinds of attention from their captors and ignite directionless rage from their kinsmen, the younger one intuited. She'd seen the alien eyes of the white men gleam with twin lust and disgust, a truly lethal duality, as they tracked the movements of the dancing women. She thought it best to appear humble, cowed, resigned. And though Neata was the eldest, Dema had begun looking out for her as soon as her legs could carry her. A shared soul between two bodies, it was their way.

     The Elders said her spirit was old, old as waters, so they were neither surprised nor impressed that Dema watched out for Neata in this way. And though the Elders had foreseen their capture and the impending death of home, their foreknowledge could not stand up against traitors from the inside and out, who would barter the blessed ones in exchange for dark sanctuary. The shame of it all, she thought, lay in the fact that this surrendering, this offering up of the sisters, could only purchase the briefest protections for the clan. The earth looks out for its own; a blood price as payment for communal sin was inevitable. She knew this like she knew her own name and whispered a fruitless prayer of safety for loved ones anyway. _May Ala bless you while we are absent from one another._

     The sharp tang of sweat and blood summoned her into the present. Braided whips cracked an uneven cadence across naked flesh. The dull whine of a boy's flute weaved throughout fetid air. A dead drum thrummed a monotonous pulse which barely failed to reach the ears of the women, let alone the ancestors. Empty noise, empty movement which her elder sister could fill with little effort. Ensnaring Neata's eyes with her darker ones, she spoke into her mind as they had in the village. Reaching out, like so many outstretched fingers, Dema cautioned, _You cannot fight in this way if we are to survive this. And we must, so that she can_ , sending her an image of the brave young woman with eyes like her own, barely managing to shield her from another image, this one of a tall soldier with eyes like the sea. "For now," hissed Neata, casting her a fierce look. Withdrawing her dance and bleeding into the fold, she peered over her shoulder and spoke again to her younger sister, "You're hiding something from me,” she trilled. Donning a smile that did not match her eyes, she receded further into herself. “For now."

_Sleepy Hollow, present day_

     Abbie Mills tossed and turned in her bed, cursing and gasping for breath. Her sheets had somehow wound themselves about her neck, both pinning and restricting her movement. Kicking the comforter back with her strong legs and disentangling herself, she sat straight up. Satin scarf gone, blow out done for, and pillows strewn left and right, she glanced over at her bedside clock and groaned, "3:00 in the morning, time out for that. Third night…morning…this week?" Unable to return to sleep, she slipped on a short silky robe, donned her fuzzy slippers, and padded downstairs, tiptoeing past Crane's room as quietly as she could. She'd started thinking of it that way since he'd been spending nights there more often than not. "Lieutenant, I always sleep better knowing you are safe...Lieutenant, I'm much too tired to walk back and couldn't imagine asking you to drive all that way, blah blah, British cakes," she snarked. Plus he’d recently admitted taking “unconscious nocturnal strolls,” so it eased her mind a bit to know he was just down the hall. Better to err on the safe side after all. Jenny had her own theories about ole Ichy displacing her spot in the guest room/study/workout room which Abbie didn't dare entertain. _So. Not. Goin'. There._

     Besides Jenny seemed content hunkering down in the basement; all the better to keep her comings and goings off the radar (a little) and afford the Witnesses "privacy," a courtesy Abbie neither asked for nor sought. "Score," she whispered, scooting successfully past his door on her way to the small kitchen below. And after pouring a glass of water and settling down into her, so not his, comfy chair, Abbie considered the past few months. With Katrina and Henry dead and gone, the two Witnesses were forced to reconsider the future before them. What new enemy lie in wait this time? What was the nature of their partnership now? After unsuccessfully getting Crane to work out his issues regarding the loss of his family with her, she was somewhat content in knowing he'd at least been attending the small veteran's support group down at Sleepy Hollow Memorial. She didn't know what cover he'd managed to concoct for himself, nor was it something "that necessitates clearing with you first. I've burdened you enough with my family drama. Enough!" Recalling Crane’s classic (if rare) bellowing, that now infamous argument resurfaced in her mind, along with residual resentment.

     About a month ago, they'd been logging hours of research in the archives, and she'd innocently deigned to inquire about his emotional well-being. After several civil (at least on her end) exchanges, he began trailing her movements deliberately, nostrils flaring and blue eyes... _bluer_ , if that were possible. And the hell if Abbie was backing down, though she was backing up. Right up until her back hit the wall on the far side of the archives. Stiff limbs stalking her, intentionally invading her "personal space," he pounced, his arms forming a barrier around her. "Allow me this briefest kindness,” Crane rasped, _all up in her face_ , “a most urgent and prudent inconvenience in the midst of this war, I’ll attest. With all due respect, Miss Mills, I insist that I must do this alone."

     "Alone? What kind of partnership is that? That kind of jacked up, selfish thinking is what could rip us apart. Has torn us apart. Especially right now. I'm here for you, Crane. Right where I'm supposed to be. And have been. Throughout everything." Here, her traitorous voice cracked and her large eyes shone with unbidden and unshed tears. Swallowing jerkily, she bit back the uninvited guests.

     Miffed by her sharp words, ignoring her misty glare, Crane sniffed, "And that is exactly the point, Lieutenant. In so many arenas, on this new ground, through this vast and unfamiliar territory, you have led. Past Purgatories real and imagined, you have carried me, shouldering more than your fair share. Let me do this. Alone. Standing on my own as a man of this time."

     Turning her head away from his and flicking a few shaggy Crane curls out of her face, Abbie gritted her teeth; her words and hands chopped out a staccato rhythm, "Crane. You are shutting me out. Again."

     Tilting her soft chin up to face him, Crane intoned, "I know," and with this pronouncement his chest heaved up and down, up and down, punctuating his breaths, “but this time it's different. I have to walk this part of the journey solitarily and steadfastly as a soldier should, so that at its end, I can be the man..." And with this confession, Abbie locked her eyes on his, "...partner...fellow Witness, whatever...you need me to be. Now and in the years to come."

     Abbie, wrenching her chin from his slim fingers, hissed, "A whole seven years, right? We don’t have time for this. And so what, I don't have a say? You’re sleeping in my home. We share a calling, a purpose, hell, a bathroom…" Her arms began flailing, telegraphing her angry panic.

     Grabbing her by both slim shoulders, Crane countered, "My physical ears attend to what you say, but I discern a dissimilar and entirely contrary meaning in what you withhold from me. And though it’s taken me bloody well long enough, I hear what you don’t say, haven’t said,” he spoke, rubbing small circles into the tops of her shoulders, soothing her. “I see you, Abbie. And you need..."

     Circling the cocoon of Crane’s arms, the air seemed to crest for a moment and then settle. Gradually the tension lines eased from Abbie's face, smoothing her frown into a reluctant smile, but a smile nonetheless. _Yes, what is it I need, Crane?_ As she waited for the captain to finish his words, she nodded slightly, encouraging him, the two of them breathing shallow puffs of air in and out, in and out together; a tiny bead of sweat wormed its way down the small of Abbie’s back when the door to the archives banged open and Jenny breezed in, calling out, "Ebony and Ivory, hey! Am I interrupting something?"

     "Now that wasn't awkward," Crane muttered, wrenching himself upright and affixing his arms firmly behind his back. "Miss Jenny, you do possess a most wondrously portentous sense of timing."

     "Thanks, Crane," she crowed, as though his words had actually been a compliment. Abbie studiously examined her feet; if pressed, she’d have to admit she’d appreciated her sister’s sense of timing that day.

     Ah, time, Abby thought, returning to the present as she drained her glass of water. _What can I do to keep myself busy until...? Bingo!_ A sneaky little grin lit up her pretty face. Placing her empty glass upside down in the sink, she slunk past Crane's darkened door, easing back into their shared bathroom. Rinsing her face quickly and blotting it dry with a towel, she peered into her mirror, humming "Yoga" by Janelle Monae. "My own private dancer, dancer, my own private dancer," she whisper-sang. Five minutes later, hair in a neat topknot and clad in her trademark leather jacket, jeans and tee, she texted her sister Jenny.

A: You up?  
J: Yep. Third time this week. No thanks to you.  
A: Huh?  
J: You're not as quiet as you think you are.  
A: K. Apologies whispered breathily. Ash there?  
J: Yep. Y?  
A: Lemme borrow him for a quick trip.  
J: Hold up. It's not that kind of party. Member Whorely?  
A: Gross. Seriously. Going to visit Seera Dixon again. Can’t go without back up or Big Daddy Crane will flip. Again.  
J: Pretty much. I can go...but, waaaait. You want someone here when Prince Valiant wakes up. Got it.  
A: Whatever. Just have BA meet me out front in 5. I know who wears the pants in that relationship.  
J: K. Who needs pants? ;). This works. For now.

_Mid Atlantic, 1657_

     In spite of Dema's admonition that the two invite as little attention as possible, they were magnets, enticing others as moths to flame or birds to wily Brother Crocodile. The ship’s chaplain, a ruddy faced man not much older than Neata, drew Dema out from the mass of weary women, seeking solace from his guilt. Some nights he flogged his chest with a short whip, all the while tearfully begging her forgiveness. Other nights, he clasped her tightly to his chest, whispering words she felt fortunate to be ignorant of. She was not afraid. He could not mortally wound her, no more than wind could starve flame or waters run dry during rainy season. She’d learned that when the trials were first sent, once Neata’s woman’s blood had run. Every day for seven days, the sisters were accosted with all manner of test: mental, physical, man, animal, spirit, element and although Dema was still a girlchild, the two emerged as victors. Their gifts could never be set against each other, the Elders said, and neither would they be beaten by man alone.

     Seeking to slake the fire in his loins, a youth sought Neata out one moonless night, intending to make her his, leaving behind his alien seed in return, no doubt. Neata, for her part, turned those beguilingly dark eyes on him, batted lustrous lashes and played up the demure exotic, ignoring Dema's pleas to _wait and wait, only wait. For now. Dukare I batu domandin._ Heedless, their amber centers swelled, swallowing him whole; large and compelling, those eyes promised him a plentitude of fleshly pleasures her words could not. Baptized in her scent, caressed by her heat, swooning, he imagined the clink and slink of her chains a singular haunting melody, a serpentine whine which wove down deep and good and warm and soft inside the marrow.

     A siren's song it was instead, and before he could free her from her bonds, she'd bitten off his index finger to the knuckle, spitting out his taint, maintaining eye contact all the while. So much so that it took him a moment to register the cruel pain she'd exacted for his trouble. “First comes the blood, little sister,” she spat as the boy's scream brought the thunderous sound of white men running.


	2. The Response

_Sleepy Hollow, Present Day_

     Armed with Grace Dixon's journal and a few odds and ends secured in her Fossil knapsack, Abbie tucked her arms tighter around Big Ash as he maneuvered his bike, coasting closer to the main underground tunnel's entrance. Securing the motorcycle in a nearby alley, Big Ash whipped his long hair behind his ears and stared Abbie down, his almost black eyes burrowing into hers. His broad profile loomed impressive against the early morning's light. "We've got to stop meeting up like this, Abs. You're taking advantage of my hanging out with Jenny," he said.

     "Oh, is that what you’re calling it? In my apartment?” She craned her neck forward and back, holding up her index finger. “Let's get one thing straight here, you owe me."

     "I don't. My brother might, but I don't."

     "And he's not here, is he? Drop it. Besides, you were here the last time it happened. Let's go, Romeo." Snapping her fingers impatiently, she led the way forward, the heels of her boots clicking briskly on concrete.

     John, Big Ash's older brother, was one of Abbie's exes from her younger, prodigal days and it looked as if she were never going to let him forget it. As they progressed further into the underground tunnels, heading towards the Masonic cell where the Dixon statue (or whatever) and Gorgon's head were kept, Big Ash wished he'd heeded his gramma's warning about the Mills sisters. His brother had, and although his name was mud here in Sleepy Hollow, particularly where Abbie was concerned, at least _he_ wasn't stumbling around half asleep in the sewers at the butt crack of dawn, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in salute to all creepy crawlers in attendance. The sisters were into some seriously dark things, he knew. But when he thought of who awaited his all noble and sweaty return to Abbie's apartment, he just smiled. _J. Mills, you will be the death of me._

* * *

     Back at the apartment, Crane woke up all at once, unfurling his long limbs from the bed in one smooth motion, thin lips enunciating rhythmically, "I want a love that shall last forever. I want to dance dance dance all the night. And repeat." _My, that song is an earworm. I can't stop singing it. One for the wheel o’ Karaoke, I’d warrant._ Humming and twirling one finger in the air like a conductor, Crane opened the door to the bathroom he shared with his lovely lieutenant. After attending to his personal hygiene and donning a pair of _hey, yoga_ pants, he crept downstairs in search of sustenance. Typically he and Miss Mills rose at a punctual 6 a.m. each day, unless it was the weekend. As such was the case, he thought he'd serve her breakfast in bed. She appreciated such thoughtful overtures and his eyes lit up as he imagined her delighted moans, her foodgasms, as she’d so aptly put it. He did make a pretty mean buttered maple waffle if he did say so himself. Realizing they were bereft of milk, he’d thought to acquire some from the nearby grocer’s market, but when he ventured to the closet for his coat, he noticed Abbie's was missing. "Lieutenant! Lieutenant! he called, deep in his throat. _Wherever had she gotten off to now? And without him?_ Leaving their breakfast provisions on the counter, Ichabod bounded up the steps in two leaps, and after a brief meditative pause, tore open Abbie's bedroom door. Espying a hastily scratched missive lying on her pillow, Ichabod felt his quickened pulse begin to slow. With a record setting change into his standard military issue, he pounded down the stairs again, this time setting his sights on the woman who'd taught him to drive, thereby releasing his inner horseman, his own career partner in crime, Miss Jennifer Mills.

     “Miss Jenny, Miss Jenny,” Crane called, drumming a fist on the basement door. “Are you decent?”

     “Really, Crane? That’s the first thing you ask? At least I know where your mind is…How about, hast thou arisen? As mere courtesy at least. Havest I taught you nothing?”

     Crane huffed; his digits fluttered manically at his sides, like small birds. Lifting an eyebrow and pursing his lips, he gathered himself up to knock again. Before he could complete the motion, Jenny’s grinning curly headed visage popped up into the doorway. Her generous mane both overwhelmed and emphasized the lean lines of her athletic figure. Tucking her oversized tank into sagging boxers as Ichabod shut his eyes, she sniped, “Crane, I’d just gotten back to sleep.” At least he’d had the grace to blush. Wiping her eyes, she groused, “What is the deal with you Witnesses and not allowing a girl her beauty rest?”

     Choosing to ignore such melodramatics, he began again in earnest, softening his tone this time. “Miss Jenny, I really think we should be on our way to see about your sister. This is the second time this week she’s scurried off without-”

     “Without telling you. Scurried, you said? A second time? How dare she? A grown ass woman too?” Jenny lifted both eyebrows up in mock outrage. “Had I pearls, I’d clutch them.”

     Holding both palms up as if in self-defense, he explained, “Well, uh, we, we have set expectations for one another’s behaviors, patterns, customs, modus operandi. You know this, Miss Jenny. And as this is very much unlike the lieutenant, I find it mildly unsettling to say the least.”

     “Ya think? Methinks the girl needs a tracker jacker, am I right?” Jenny retorted, enjoying Ichabod’s discomfort, watching him nod stiffly in confused agreement. Finally succumbing to something akin to a conscience, Jenny took pity on her sister’s un-boyfriend and grabbing his arm, helped walk him halfway up the steps. Before he began sputtering in protest, Jenny gently reassured him, “Give me a second to throw on some real clothes and I’ll join you in your quest to save fair Princess Peach.” Running back downstairs and slamming the door behind her, Jenny left Ichabod to ruminate upon the dubious notion of a Princess named Peach and the unquestionable fairness of Abigail Mills.

     Meanwhile, ensconced within the walls of the Masonic cell, Abbie and Big Ash did their best to recapture the same conditions, both concrete and abstract, which allowed the miracle to take place the last time they’d visited Seera Dixon. Abbie knelt down at the statue’s feet, lighting lavender candles and placing plastic dollar store flowers in a circle. Folding her feet underneath her thighs, she placed Grace’s journal on her lap and cleared her head. Big Ash did what he’d done on the last visit and the one before that. Hunched over on a too small chair with the seat facing backwards, he just sat there. Abbie wasn’t really sure what his function was here. But if she’d had to guess, to name it, kind of like the hazy way it felt to figure out the hidden picture in one of those 3D kids’ books, she’d say that he was like a window, allowing her to see beyond the hollow. _Ahem, Jenny did swear his lovemaking took her places_ …Taking a deep breath, and choking back shaky laughter, Abbie reined in her mind. _A key’s all fine and well, but it’s no good without...this guy, apparently._ Protest as he may, his Pawpaw had once been a powerful shaman. Abbie pitched a look across the room, trying to get BA’s attention, seeking a little nonverbal reassurance. His face was angled away from her, features schooled into intentional neutrality for Jenny’s sake, she was sure.

     She rolled her eyes. _Now for the key_. She flipped past the familiar pages of the book, most of which she’d already tattooed on her heart and mind, and zeroed in on the empty ones, the last few emitting a steady gleam of some sort. They just didn’t appear to have aged as thoroughly as the others. The Grace she’d met in 1781 had said she was destined to fill the remaining pages, recording the battles to come, so maybe this was part of that process, she’d guessed. As before Abbie bowed her head and did her best to get her tears to flow. Much like invisible ink, the words she needed to hear from Seera would only manifest once she’d streaked the pages with her tears. At least, she’d only tried it that way in lieu of the lemon juice Crane’d wasted making the world’s worst effing lemonade last week. Perhaps salt water would work just as well. Humming a wordless tune, she closed her eyes and uncapped the fount of pain within. _“You are my sunshine…” Dad’s forgotten pack of cigarettes left under the couch. The bruise Mom pressed into my arm when she caught me kissing John behind the church. “Trust no one.” Jenny’s angry eyes when I failed to back up our story. Corbin’s slight musk gone from the old uniform I’d kept. Crane’s refusal to let me in. Again._ Rewarded with fat tears dripping silently down her face, Abbie smeared them onto a page, rubbing them reverently into each corner like lotion on parched skin. She knew the process was worth the pain when the figure looming above her began to speak in a fully resonant alto, rich and deep. Abbie leaned forward, placing her chin on her fists, eager to hear her continue the tale of the sisters lost at sea, much like she’d done as a little girl anticipating her mother’s stories of fires and trumpets, Martha and Mary, a new heaven and a new earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a lot of fans, I wanted to know more about Big Ash and company. I like characters that are rough around the edges and may not be all that gung-ho mission wise but end up coming through in the end. At least that's the vibe I got from him.  
> Also, who doesn't enjoy a good foil for Boss Lady Abbie? And Crane plus Jenny always equals a good time! Happy reading!


	3. The Sacrifice

_Mid-Atlantic, 1657_

     The morning after Neata took her bloody prize, the captain ordered all female captives brought on deck. Once he’d positioned the two sisters in the center of the assembly, he addressed the group, obviously warning them about the two, gesturing passionately in their direction. The ruddy faced chaplain stood to his left, head bowed, miming the sign of a tree on his chest, mumbling words from the missal he held in trembling hands. Pointing at them, circling them, the captain repeated, Dema was sure, the words which had shadowed them all their days, well before they were born. _Changeling, rotten, wrong. Witch in some tongues, obanje in one other._ Their father’s brother, prodded by Neata, told Dema that the clan had been fortunate the sisters were marked for death the first time they’d been born. After all, he’d said, they’d appeared as twins then, and the source of that undiluted power wasn’t natural for humans, especially womenfolk, to wield. It was untameable and boundless, the cast bones once read.  

     The captain’s sermon complete, he then considered the group of women waiting before him, his beady eyes raking over their bodies before settling on two who looked the most like Neata and Dema. Darkly luminous skin, slight, lithe, but strong shapes set against the morning bright, the women were obviously sisters and as the two begin to cling to one another, moaning their keening cry, the one with the heart shaped face began praying to all the gods she knew. Dema turned to search her elder sister then, reading her body’s rhythms, reaching out with her mind. She found Neata’s breaths remained even and steady, her eyes unblinking, her heart thrumming its own familiar red beats, hand at her throat. Deaf to their mounting distress, the captain continued pointing back and forth from one pair of sisters to the other, clearly creating a connection between the women. Without pause he rose up with his short dagger, slashing the throats of both chosen, pushing them overboard the ship, beating back primitive female brutality with man’s swift law. Necessary _and ignorant sacrifice to a yawning maw._ While white men began herding those remaining back down to the ship’s underbelly, down past their brothers, and still deeper, into its womb, Dema waited, willing her body to bury her anger, and channeled Neata through their bond. _“Think about what you are courting, who you are tempting. You knew what fate awaited those women. You acted rashly. You cannot defy fate, nor more than you can control the Mother of Waters. It appears you cannot even control yourself_. “Sister,” she whispered calmly, intimately, “You cannot control me either. Think about what you are courting. Think about who you tempt. First comes the blood, the dance, a scream of many bodies. And then will I finally see what you keep hidden from me.”

_Sleepy Hollow, Present Day_

     Abbie’s eyes raced back and forth underneath her lids, her pulse ran rapidly, and a sheen of sweat dotted her pained expression. “Abbie,” Ichabod called out, spying her through the glass, “Abbie!” He then crashed into the room unceremoniously, all coltish arms and legs, breaking her concentration. “Are you alright?” Seera’s glowing eyes faded into the surrounding gray of the statue, her mouth frozen in the now familiar line. Thanks to a tactless, graceless Crane and the worst soldier-sitter ever Jenny, the link to her ancestor had been broken, the story rendered incomplete.

     “Crane! Crane! Crane! You’ve ruined everything! Why did you come charging in here like Tarzan come to save the day?” Hands on her hips, Abbie cut into Ichabod with equal parts clipped tones and frosty glare.

     Flinching a little, he retorted, “Tarzan! Are you comparing my personage to little more than a talking, bipedal ape? I resent that, Lieutenant, just like I resent being left behind at home like your recalcitrant ward. Why wouldn’t you disclose this literal breakthrough with me so that I can share in your discovery? Delight in it, even? If you were losing sleep, why wouldn’t you confide in me as I have you? I’m sure a diatribe denoting the devilment of the diet industry would quickly usher you into somnolent bliss or at the very least into your charmingly restrictive “work out” gear.”

     Sensing his eagerness to make up for his blunder, allowing his over the top geekiness and obvious concern to disarm her, Abbie decided to let him off the hook. Standing up on unsteady feet and looping her arm through his, she eyeballed him wearily, calling out to Jenny, “Hey, didn’t you feed this boy? He’s skinnier already.”

     Rolling her eyes, Jenny bent down to help Big Ash up from his roost on the too small chair. “Hey baby,” he grunted, pulling her down to his generous lap for a quick kiss.

     “Look, Abbie. I gives the menfolk what they want. Ichabod wanted you, so we rushed over here as soon as he got up,” she drawled, tucking a loose curl into her ponytail. “I guess some people live off love, but this girl’s got to eat. I know that’s right.”

     “She is insufferable,” Crane groaned, rolling his eyes towards the heavens.

     After slapping herself a high five, she and Big Ash trudged off into the tunnels ahead of her sister and Crane. “We’ll meet you guys back at the house to debrief and eat, okay Abbie? I definitely want to hear all about this whole Pygmalion Ancestry not com thing.”

     “A Pig does what?” Big Ash asked.

     “It’s a school thing; don’t even try, baby,” Jenny teased. “I date you for purely shallow reasons.”

     Once the foursome left the confines of the cell, Seera’s eyes glowed and she spoke aloud. “She sees and her hunger grows. Her hunger grows and it is not enough. For now.” A sonorous shrill filled the space; a dry rattle resonated from the cell’s four walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the Hollow after all; there's got to be a little blood and a few chills(hopefully).


	4. The Dream

     As Abbie cleared the threshold of the apartment, Ichabod’s long legs zipped ahead of hers. Clearing the kitchen counter of his earlier failed attempt at breakfast, he thereby avoided another Mills lecture about wasting perfectly good food. It had taken Crane awhile to embrace the wonders of preservatives. Shaking her head and biting back her comments, Abbie washed her hands and began to prepare lunch for the team. Minutes later, Abbie slid the grilled cheese sandwiches onto plates, making sure to slice the crusts off Cranes’ first. Ichabod poured warm broccoli and cheese soup from the corner deli into four large thermoses, topping Abbie’s with chopped up bits of bacon. As the group settled down to eat, Abbie caught Ichabod and Jenny up to speed concerning Seera’s newfound ability to speak and the role Abbie’d had to play in it. Predictably, Ichabod didn’t welcome the idea of Abbie willingly experiencing pains of the past, no matter the outcome, whereas Jenny felt the whole episode reminiscent of her possession by Ancitef. It made them both distinctly uncomfortable, but Big Ash remained his neutral self, a less than fully committed ally of sorts to Abby, she divined. “Promise me you won’t return until we’ve done more research about this decidedly mystical phenomenon. You must promise me, Lieutenant,” Ichabod pleaded, fastening his eyes on her face, then steadfastly scanning her body for any of her less than forthcoming(to the uninitiated, that is) tells.

     “Stop trying to read me, Captain.” Abbie folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs tightly, thankful his blue eyes could not detect her blush. His keen eyes traced a circuit around the smooth curves of her mouth and she tried not to flinch in response. _Major fail, obvious tell._   

     Jenny turned to face her sister, reaching out to place her hand on top of hers. “I’m going to have to go in with Stiff Upper Lip on this one. He’s got a point, Abbie.”

     “Not you too, Jenny,” she huffed, withdrawing her hand and side-eyeing her. “I’d expect you to understand where I’m coming from. For the longest time, it’s only been us.” Looking down at the table, she chewed vigorously on her bottom lip.

     “But now we have Ichy and Big Ash and Frank and Joey. A few times a year at least. Even Hawley drops a line every now and then.” At her last comment, Big Ash rolled his eyes skyward.

     “It’s not enough, Jenny. I’m missing something. We’re missing something. Moloch and his army stole it from us and now it’s our chance to gain some ground and win family back. Blood is thicker and all.” Jenny saw the pain reflected in Ichabod’s eyes and smiled thinly at him.

     Raising an eyebrow at her older sister, she said, “It’s going to have to be enough, Abbie. What we’ll have at the most will be stories, and what of that? Do you honestly think you’ll be able to revive cousin Seera? And then what, pluck her into life right here in Sleepy Hollow? Maybe find her a position on the force, try to get Reyes to accept her too. She could even take my spot in the basement. I know, next stop: Quantico! Face facts, big sis. You are in over your head and you don’t even see it. Maybe there was a legit reason Mom wouldn’t talk to us about her side of the family.”

     “Jenny, we’re just going to have to agree to disagree,” said Abbie, rapidly blinking back tears and smoothing her hair behind her ears, “I’m not going to talk with you about this anymore right now. I know what I’m tempting. I know what I seek. Do you? She paused, eyes widening for a moment and tilted her head to one side as though listening for an echo. “You’re shiftless, Jenny. You’re constantly moving, in and out like the tide. I don’t want to push you away, but you need to know I’m not giving this up, and I’m not giving up on you.”

     Ichabod caught Big Ash’s eyes, alarmed. _Should we stay? Should we go?_ “Lieutenant…” he began.

     “Can it, Crane. Can’t you see I’m talking to family? This is a road I have to walk alone,” she said, borrowing his words from their earlier spat. Ichabod took her cue, nodding his farewells to Miss Jenny and Master Ash and removed himself upstairs to his room, quietly closing the door behind him. Miss Mills had given him a great deal to cerebrate right then and she evidently desired distance from him at the moment as she dealt with her likewise conflicted feelings. He just wished the contemplation of said feelings didn’t come furnished with so much hurt, like some sort of marketeer’s ghastly “free gift with purchase.”

     Jenny studied her sister a beat before replying, “Yeah, I’ve heard that song before, Abbie; I wrote it. And I can take whatever you dish out and then some. But this? It isn’t just about me; it’s about all of us. That really wasn’t cool. You hurt his feelings just now and what’s worse? You hurt him because you’re hurt. Call me closet counseling rock star; that one was free of charge! Guess I did pick up a little something from those Tarrytown cuckoo sessions, after all, eh? Come on, Ash,” she said, scooting to her feet. “We’re out of here. Get your bike. I’m going to bunk at your place for a while.”

     “You are? Okay. That’s cool. Sorry Little A,” Big Ash said, lumbering out the door like the fine ass gentle giant he was.

     “Alright, Jenny. We’ll talk. Later. When the both of us have had time to process all of this and I catch up on some much needed rest. I love you, Jenny. You know that.” She turned to her younger sister, extending her arms for a hug.

     “And I, you. Which is why I’m out, so that I’m not forced to use an illegal firearm on my big sister today.” Jenny completed the hug sideways Duggars’ style, adding an impromptu noogie for style points.

     Shoving her away, Abbie sneered, “Like you could even…”

     “Hey, let’s not fight,” she laughed quietly. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Abs.”

     “Later J.

     “Later A.”

     When the motorcycle’s whizzing away fizzled out into the neighborhood’s typical Saturday mélange of mowers running and kids playing, Abbie stood up from the table, took a deep breath, and bent over at the waist, letting her head and arms dangle down at her sides. Standing back upright, she tried to digest the fear sitting in the bottom of her stomach as her thoughts turned to Crane. She had wounded him with her words, true, but he’d drawn first blood, _damn it._ _I just don’t know how to make this right and I hate feeling this way._ Scraping the remains of lunch into the trash, positing leftover cheese in the fridge, and carefully placing the plates into the sink, Abbie sighed and directed her gaze upstairs. Shuffling over to the stair case, she aimed her toe in the center of each step, taking every one deliberately, like it was serious business, some wacked out adult version of the lava game. Like adding five more seconds to the quick trek upstairs could delay the inevitable, following up with Ichabod and ~~hugging~~ talking it all out.

     As she cleared the landing, glancing at Crane’s closed door, she dropped into a low crouch and began tracking his movements just beyond it. She could see his shadow flit back and forth underneath the sill and she knew he was wearing a path down the middle of the floor with his constant pacing. Inching closer to the door and gingerly placing her right ear and small hands against its surface, the smooth tread of his boots on carpet satisfied her assertion.   She couldn’t imagine what she could say right now to make this better. She’d meant what she’d said before _and_ the time before that too. When she and Ichabod had renewed their pledge as Witnesses and “sealed their accord,” she’d given him access to rooms and secret passageways she’d even closeted off from herself. Her vulnerability, fed by her trust in him, lived without limit, though its protective cover had collapsed. _And_ _what a blessed relief it was._    But his newfound ability to hurt her, his prideful insistence on holding it all together alone, no matter how noble(if affecting) his pretty oaths were, felt like being pushed aside, so Abbie dug a hasty moat around her heart, uneven, roughhewn planks lining its edges.   _As smart as he was, why didn’t he get it? It’s only natural that she’d reach out for roots, real roots to steady her against his shifting whims, right? Right._ No matter who or what they had to face next, they had to make things right again between the two of them. _Just not right now._ Resolving to confront the man first thing in the morning, Abbie felt, rather than heard him pause, and hurriedly ducked into her room, the better to avoid him. Coiling her body into a tight ball in the middle of her bed, she slipped easily into sleep in a matter of minutes, her body exacting the cost of its 3:00 a.m. wake up call, her teeth sinking deeper into the fleshy bottom of her full lips.

     On the other side of their shared wall, Ichabod ceased his revolutions, noting Abbie’s nearness and figuring for all the world, she’d come to her senses, working together with him to mend their quarrel. So he stood there, waiting _for his Princess Peach_ , staring at the doorway, wishing not to spook her by moving again, and was woefully disappointed to hear her open and close the door to her bedroom, effectively shutting him out for the rest of the day. Inspired, he ran his hands reverently across the surface of their common wall as though his long fingers could absorb a few warm remnants in spite of the cold way she’d behaved after their late morning repast. As he knew her routines by heart, he vowed to give her space as she’d intimated; he’d even use the facilities downstairs lest he contend with the scented specter of her nighttime routine: steam, lavender, and the echoes of their current favorite songs. _Ah, well,_ he mused, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding his head between his hands, _over 250 years hadn’t prepared him to understand the inner workings of one Grace Abigail Mills after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww...I kind of hate to hurt any of the gang's feelings, but it's needed for the story; I especially feel for Crane here. Curse that eidetic memory! Who would you say is in the wrong here? Crane? Abbie? Jenny? None of them?


	5. The Dance

_Mid-Atlantic, 1657_

          Dema began reaching out to the chaplain intentionally, mentally coaxing him to collect her each night, as proximity to her sister made it challenging to conceal her thoughts as she slept. Neata began veiling her mind in turn, ignoring the stinging, cerebral pricks her sister’s cloying efforts produced. Her attempts proved of little consequence since Dema already recognized what the eldest had set in motion; she knew it would take place that night as the blood moon now ran full. Her body pulsed with possibility and desperate want. Restless within the ship’s bowels, men and women faithful to the old religions, summoned the old mother, scratching patterns into trembling skin, running their blood, painting their dark skins, tattooing a choice darker still. And they waited, discerning time’s rippled whisper of possibility in kind, for one to change the drum’s rhythms, and they waited for the night time dancing, when marked steps meant death to this life, when their prayers would usher their god into flesh and their muted vengeance into breath.

_Sleepy Hollow, Present Day_

          Dema’s warnings washed away into the back channels of Abbie’s baptized mind. Shucking off her mortal coil felt procedural, easy, like a reflex, like slipping out of worn jeans after a hard day's work. Effortless. Reborn, she was a different thing, an awesome creature. Her cloud of curls, weightless in the waters, formed an ever shifting halo around her face. Her body sang its infallibility as she arched her strong back, burdens carried away by the current’s ebb and flow, all past, present and future sins cleansed in the swirling of the salted swell, for who does a god need pray to? As she flexed her powerful tail and swam steadily towards the surface, warmer waters caressed the length of her frame, and the calling to loose their bonds bobbed to the forefront of her mind. She felt connected. Loved. Adored. Worshiped. Feared. Unbowed. Though she sensed her own hunger, she did not feel empty. And she, both child and mother, sister and other, could fill all their empty spaces in kind. She found comfort, like a child nesting its head in its mother’s lap, like a mother giving her child life from her breast, reckoning that she would when the time was right, the doorway made clear. This promise calmed her, kept her from breaking the surface and sharing her glory prematurely. She’d been following this ship for days, moons, and need simply bide her time. The disappointments and heartbreak of yesterdays no longer concerned her. Regret was temporal, small, dirty and human. Man would mess up and mess up again; it is the prerogative of the mother to make it right again, sand down all the rough patches, lick away tears, collecting the spoils as she may. The preternatural righting of wrongs, the balancing of scales was where it’s at. Pay, plus benefits. Besides, when was the last time she’d been able to belly up to a table, figuratively speaking, of so many souls? So much family. Her mouth watered its reply as she propelled herself mightily through the waves. Tasting the iron in her bloodied lip, she smiled, and the fire in her eyes sparked.

* * *

          Gasping for air, the soldier sat up quickly and looked around the ancient grotto, waiting for his eyes to adjust.   _Again, with the small dark spaces. Is the third time not the_ _charm?_ His roaming eyes noted the ropey twists and turns of unfamiliar flora lining its inner walls. Upon closer inspection, their patterns seemed to suggest meaning, a scratch of something true he could just barely grasp before it scuttled back inside the empty corners of his mind. But before he could stand to his feet, the better to explore his surroundings, a woman’s bold voice rang out, clear and sure, teasing him, calling him, imploring him to start towards the twilight filtering in through the mouth of the cave. Her voice emanated from within him and without, he surmised. Ill formed shadows passed over its walls as he shut his eyes tight against a swoon, and a sudden swell of nausea struck him. Shaking his head to clear his daze, his ears fairly popped, attending to the increasing insistence, some mounting pressure in the woman’s tone. As he could perceive no other form of egress, and sojourning its recesses should only prove a fruitless endeavor, Ichabod ambled towards the voice of the woman, aware of his fluttering pulse and heightened senses. He found himself eager to meet this woman and the slick rush of heated blood he felt flooding throughout his body felt both familiar and alien. At once he felt more base than rational, more natural than man and less in control. Primal. A veritable seat of discomfort.

          Once he made his way towards the honeyed voice and his only exit, his eyes were met by a being he’d only encountered in the pages of myth and belatedly his research into the occult with the lieutenant. Sitting on a rock jutting flush to the cave’s entrance, Mami Wata peered over her shoulder to study him. Her thick black curls cascaded up and down, almost obscuring her lush bottom. Within their tangled depths sparkled sea glass and pearls, sand dollars and bright coral, and as she moved, disturbing the perfect tableau, that hair seemed to make its own music, a little like the sighing swooshing sounds inside a conch and Ichabod could taste coconut and butter and salt, sticky sweet in his mouth. The air around her body seemed to shiver and swell and her profile gleamed in the not quite dark. Watching him take in her smooth cocoa skin and sumptuous curves, she consumed his gasps like so much food and drink, accepting them for the offerings they surely were, for her upper half was wholly woman, full breasted, her hair scarcely skimming each round peak. And the bottom half of her body glinted with scales, taking on a pleasing piscine shape past her nipped in waist; he knew, without touching her _yet_ , that those scales would feel both supple and strong beneath his long frame. And he longed to touch her, had longed to touch her, her devastating face a crown jewel: gleaming white teeth, impossibly high cheek bones, arresting brown eyes, and a winsome dimple. Somehow Ichabod now beheld the face of his Abbie, were she a water sprite or some nether spirit in the flesh, that is. Basking in his frail humanity, sunning in his wantonness, Mami smelled his excitement and compelled him closer still. Her time was short and this conjuring was already smearing and tearing around its edges. Smiling brilliantly, inclining her charming neck, she murmured, “Come closer, hero. You are a pretty thing. I can almost see why she connects to you. But the whole Witness calling, light aura, light eyes, long suffering soldier shtick… All that pressure could drown a woman. And we know you’re not much help in that category, right? What, too soon? Oh, why the long face? Give yourself a break, old man. You don’t really think Hawley saved her from your Mary, do you? After all this time? You drew her from the waters, yes, but no man draws life from death. I am the Mother of Waters. I know these things. Are you listening, little man?”

          Drawing himself up to his full height, shaking off his flushed fascination, he snapped, “Your appearance is distracting…unnerving…I’m finding it difficult to focus on anything you might have to say, demon!”

          “Repressed feelings, much? Am I making this too _hard_ for you? I could have you seven ways ‘til Sunday and back again,” she screeched, laughing lustily. Without warning, his knees buckled and he tumbled forward, the breath knocked out of him. “Ichabod Crane, your books can tell you nothing of me; time for a new lesson, boy. I am not a demon; I am a god made flesh. I cannot be cast out or ordered about by any man. Were there time and if I didn’t fear our coupling would snap your weak body in two, I’d show you the demands wearing this flesh places on a god. Or,” she whispered gently, silkily, “would you rather I wore a different guise? I could even be her if you wanted me to. Do you want me? Too. Captain? Would you rather swap honeysuckle for lavender? Light for dark? Wet for dry?” Flicking a light spray of water at him, her eyes flashed as Katrina’s for the briefest moments before ghosting white and then brown again.

          “No!” Ichabod howled, wiping moisture from his face.

          “Fast or slow? Soft or hard? Both? All?” As she stretched her lips into a wide grin, he noted a hint of Henry’s glower around the corners of her eyes.

          “No! Don’t do that; I couldn’t bear it. Bring back the lieutenant.” He turned away, clenching his eyes closed against his utter frustration. A patch of damp spread across the front of his trousers.

          “Awww…you need only ask nicely. You thought you’d manage all by yourself, how sweet. Say please, pretty pretty please. I was there at the beginning and here at the end. Say my name again, my friend. Look at me,” she demanded. “Now give Mami a kiss,” she hissed and as he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the onyx split eyes of a man sized serpent, its body muscled menace, its fanged face oddly prescient. “How do you like me now, daddy? First comes blood, then comes marriage, here come Katrina with the baby carriage,” it sang in awful parody of the childhood chant, the echoes resounding mercilessly off the cavern’s walls. The creature then laughed and laughed, deep and low and ugly, its mouth an unending chasm. Its oily black lips mouthed the words, “Bye, bye…for now. See you and lieutenant later, gator.” Coiling up its long body, it lunged at Ichabod, its fangs dripping stringy yellow venom. They only narrowly missed their mark.

          As he came back to himself, trembling and clutching his throat, Crane took his time opening his eyes, his long lashes fluttering nervously, zeroing in on the popcorn ceiling above. His next move was an easy yet humbling one to make nonetheless. _That was surely a prophetic dream,_ he thought, _I must warn Abbie, posthaste._ But first Ichabod, grabbing his cellular phone, punched in digits he mercifully hadn’t had to dial in a while.   Mumbling indelicately under his breath, waiting for the dialing tones to finally cease their ringing, he cleared his throat and inquired, “Might I speak with Mr. Hawley, please?”

          “Yes, Highness, speaking. Right here at your service. How are things? Abbie, Jenny?”

          “Mr. Hawley, this isn’t a social call, rather, there is a matter of utmost importance, so I must arrive at the point. An ancient enemy has emerged and-“

          “Well, of course it has,” Hawley drawled, “I knew a little personal call about my well-being, after all this time, was way too much to ask for. No matter. How might I assist you in the good fight this fine evening, friend?”

          “How well are you versed in water spirit lore? Sirens, mermaids…snake persons?”

          “Snake persons?” Hawley asked. “Okay…what makes you ask?” Switching the phone to speaker, he bent over, leaning down to tighten the laces on worn boots. Patting the dusty bag beside him, he double checked its contents a final time. “Crane, I need to know what we’re specifically dealing with here. All cultures across time and place have stories of water spirits, some benign, some neutral, others harbingers of some other supernatural disaster or other, you know, typical end of the world type shit.”

          “Er…this one appears in dreams…knows a good deal about me. About Abbie. Even about…”

          Hawley waited patiently on the other end. “Katrina and Henry,” Crane finished, wounds opening anew.

          “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry, man. I heard about that.”

          Without acknowledging Hawley’s attempts to comfort him, he prattled on, “And I found myself both repulsed and…excited.”

          At this Hawley perked up, jumping up from his current perch, knocking over his bag, and asked, “What do you mean, excited? Like…down below? Did snake lady come on to you? What kind of dream was this, man? I’ll be needin’ some details.” Sifting through the mess on the floor, he checked to make sure nothing was broken. He then picked up a slim book and began rifling through its pages.

          Shaking his head, Crane replied, “Oh, look, my battery avatar appears almost depleted. We’ll need to wrap this up quickly, Mr. Hawley. And since you inquired, it was more like an innanet fish lady, at least at first.”

          “Nice, nice. Shapeshifting, bonus! Look bro, you called me.   Hmm…knows you, excites you…scared you, making you desperate enough to call me. You can keep your wet dreams to yourself; I’ve got a slight touch of the pseudo Oedipal complex via Lady Camila myself, know what I mean, Vern? But riddle me this. Did she give you her name? Number? Web domain?”

          Ignoring his last baseless query and much of the man’s hideous “oversharing,” Ichabod replied, “Not quite, but I failed to ask. She did ask me to call her “Mommy.”

          “Crane,” Nick swallowed noisily and deadpanned, “was there spanking involved?”

          Ichabod refused to dignify that unseemly remark, continuing, “Further, she referred to herself as the very Mother of Waters. Does this mean something to you? Hawley, Hawley,” he called, “are you still there?’

          “Yep, yep, take it down a notch. You’re in deep, Crane. You and Abbie both. As usual. Let me talk to some contacts on this side. I’ll get back to you. You should talk to Abbie, though, see if she’s having the same sort of crazysexycool dreams. What would I give to be a fly on the wall when ya do, but I digress. This Mami Wata, Snake Woman, or even crocodile to some is the original chocolate twerkmaid, a big momma on the spirit realm totem pole. She still has worshipers all over the world and every so often some nut tries to pour her into a human…vessel. But it never works; just ends in a lot spilled blood, death, rips in the space time continuum, chips, dip…yep, a Witness kind of party,” he went on, flipping blonde hair out of his eyes.  

          “Rips in the what?” Crane sputtered.

          “Just checking to see if you were listening. Pop quiz tomorrow. Ignore that last part; look, while the buga-booty call is cause for concern, you should be A-okay for now. Don’t get your petticoats in a bunch, Crane. Her spirit can never enter this world unless she finds a door. She didn’t say anything about a door, did she?”

          “No, she did not,” Crane said. “But as is often the case, the impossible becomes the possible with us. The Lieutenant and I would do well to locate this portal before she does. Do you know where we could uncover its whereabouts?”

          “I don’t. But as I said, let me do some digging and get back to you. You’re not in any real trouble until the blood moon, anyhow. And that won’t take place for…whelp…   Tonight. But, I’m on it, Crane. Trust me. Tell Jenny for me. I’ve got this.”

          “Easier said than done, Hawley. Pardon me if I don’t sit on my hands whilst waiting for you. Thanks for the information and the…talk. That will be all, farewell. I shall endeavor to keep you posted.” Clearing his throat, he hit the end button, effectively cutting off Hawley’s last words.

          “Hey, be smart. I don’t have to tell you to avoid mirrors and oh, water, and uh, sea shell bras, right?” Hearing the dial tone in response, Hawley shook his head, placing his phone in his bag and made his way out of the flat he shared with former Vitala turned undead treasure hunter, Camila Pines.

* * *

          Easing out from under the heft of Big Ash’s body, Jenny rolled over onto her stomach unable to rest. Blocking out the men yelling and engines gunning in the repair shop below, she thought about her relationship with her sister Abbie. For years it seemed they’d spent an eternity apart, struggling through a Purgatory all their own, before finally making their way back to one another. Death in all its incarnations had a way of ripping them apart and piecing them back together, the edges never quite meeting up again the way they’d used to. Though the remains of Mama, Corbin, Katrina and Company were lone gone, the ashes of abandonment and betrayal would not stay neatly buried. Though dead, the same old themes continued to play themselves out. Ichabod did not have a patent on modern resurrections it seemed. And while they were sisters again, true, she still played Rizzo to Abbie’s Sandra Dee. She was still the bad girl, while Abbie walked with an angel. And though Jenny was with the band too, Abbie played lead guitar.

          Then Jenny thought about all the times she’d been right and Abbie wrong, like when they tackled the Hessians on their own, just the three of them, leaving the police out of it. Like when she totally called Reyes continued distrust and generally localized bitchiness where the Mills’ sisters were concerned. Like when she shed light on the fifty shades of…shade… _cough, sabotage,_ _cough_ Katrina constantly threw during their plans to defeat Headless and Henry. Or on a personal level when she’d repeatedly urged Abbie to admit she had feelings for Crane which went past the professional, capital W, Witness-y sort. All that pent up angst wasn’t good for either Witness, she reasoned, brushing her warm lips against BA’s temple.

          Was the yellow bricked haul to Emerald City a more apt comparison to the righteous task at hand, though? And if so, then whose journey was it, really? she thought. Abbie’s primarily, while she played the shuffling Scarecrow to her Dorothy? _No, I’m definitely the lion. Lions are hot._ _And somebody else looks way more like a Scarecrow, just sayin’._ Rolling her eyes, she considered, _Am I content to follow while she leads?_ Whispering wetly into Big Ash’s ear, grinding softly against him, Jenny woke him up for a little play now, work later. With him at her side, she’d have a chance to get some questions answered and maybe even find out which role she was destined to play in this war. This time, rather than wait for Abbie to come to her, she’d take matters into her own hands, like the old Jenny, and do a little investigating herself, see if Abbie’s Storytimes with Seera was a necessary stop on her way to see the wizard.

_Mid-Atlantic, 1657_

          The sea was uncharacteristically calm, though a storm, winds twisting passionately as though choreographed, began forming off in the distance. Lightening rent the sky, but the red of Mother Moon bled, streaking the sky with her tale and the early evening stars could not shine their small lights through the dark. Against their better judgement, without reason, the white men began descending below deck, unshackling their prisoners. No time like the present for a moonlit dance. “Let the drumming begin,” Neata moaned.

_Sleepy Hollow, present day_

          After his disturbing discussion with Sir Hawley, Crane strode out of his room, determined to speak with Miss Mills about his concerns. The other issues currently straining their bond would have to be dealt with later. Swallowing both his pride and his reservations, caught up in the concern for the lieutenant, he knocked on her door lightly, bare knuckles rapping briskly against the woodgrain. “Miss Mills, I apologize for breaking our tentative peace, but I must really speak with you about a prophetic dream I had last night. You were in it. Or something like you, rather. Might I speak with you face to face for just a moment?” he implored, knocking more softly this time, with two knuckles raised. When Abbie failed to answer the door, he hesitated a beat before twisting the door knob and pushing the door open. “Miss Mills, are you awake?” he asked, noticing her tiny body bundled up in bed linens, her back facing the door. “Sorry to intrude upon your privacy, but we really must talk. I’ve been visited by a buxom otherworldly apparition with a proclivity for water,” he said, perching tentatively on the edge of her bed, “I wanted to compare notes with you, to see if you’d experienced something in kind. We often dream in tandem, do we not?” Reaching out to pat her back reassuringly, he continued, “Mr. Hawley has confirmed my suspicions that we are dealing with a malevolent deity, though not a demon, per se. What say you, Abbie, shall we traverse this part of the path together?” Suddenly skeptical given her continued silence, Crane threw back the covers, revealing three pillows the lieutenant had cleverly tucked beneath her comforter. The note placed on top of them read, “I told you decoys don’t work:) Couldn’t sleep for long; headed back to the tunnels. Talk later.” Groaning, Crane noted, “Great. And all of that was pointless.” A second visit to the tunnels today. _The woman’s consumed with the past while we must deal with this present threat. Irony is a mother_. _Of contention, of course, or ist that a bone?_  The strains of “Classic Man” filled the silence, scattering his thoughts, and prompting him to answer his cellular device. “Yes, Mr. Hawley?”

          “Crane, you’re not going to like this. My contact says the vessel reveals itself in dreams to those sensitive to the soft spaces between the worlds. The spirit takes on many forms but will appear in its dominant incarnation first.   Typically a guise that is attractive and compelling to the dreamer or witness, lowercase w in this case. Look, you didn’t give me much to go on. But I’m betting Katrina and Henry won’t be returning for an encore any time soon.” Sighing and squinting, he muttered, “So, uh, is Abbie nearby? You’ve got to warn her to stay away from the door.”

          “Again with the riddles, Mr. Hawley, speak plainly.”

          “I’m doing my best, but answer this. Has she been different lately? Losing time? Sleep? Has she been spending time with anyone new?” Waiting for a reply, he paused. “Crane? Crane? Are you still there?” Dropping his phone, Ichabod raced out of the lieutenant’s sleep chambers as fast as he could.

          Whispering under his breath to the God he knew, he prayed he’d make it on time. Hot wiring Jenny’s decrepit white van, a gift from Henry’s dead cronies, he peeled out of the apartment’s parking garage, as speedily as the old rusted bucket could take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't appreciate Hawley stealing screen time and it's not about to happen in any of my fics, but I do love his and Ichabod's weird anti-bromantical chemistry. How much fun would they have been on a road trip?


	6. The Blood

_Mid-Atlantic, 1657_

          The deck teemed with bodies, their shadows casting a dark blanket over the larger body of the ship. As a small boy struck a steady drum beat, black bodies began to sway, their arms reaching towards the sky, their hearts reaching towards the sea. The white men stared, oddly moved, eyes shining with regret salted instead of scorn sown. How they wished they could join in the dance if for a moment, but they did not know its steps, and could not mark time to its beats. From the shadows, her swan’s neck stretched forth, leading them. Her steps were wondrous, her rhythms original and powerful, and her leaps both bright and awful. Come, her artful limbs beckoned the pale men, of course you may join in the dance. You are forgiven and you are so loved, she thought, nodding her assent as her brothers, with dull knives, slit their willing necks, the blood spooling onto the floor. As the men and women formed circles, weaving in and out of one another’s circuits, Neata granted them a genuine smile, the one she had not worn since they’d been stolen from home. As she maneuvered in and out of the circles, crossing her shadow with theirs, boneless bodies dropped to the floor, their souls spiraling into hers. Running her pink tongue over her gums, she refused to worry about Dema’s reluctance to join the dance, her mouth growing used to the stretch of her smiling. In time Dema would have no choice. Absorbing Mami Wata fully was a gradual process, their shared soul the final payment, the dowry. Like wrapping her body in freshly dyed linens, she relished the newness of her form. Bending so low her nose almost touched the ground, her higher essence split off towards Purgatory, a snake shedding its skin. Bearing gifts for a horrid king. And Mami Wata looked out through Neata’s eyes, farther, deeper, harder, hungrily seeking Dema out; she might not deign to dance, but the Mother of Waters was ready to see what secrets young Dema had kept so well for so long.

* * *

          Approaching the statue of her ancestor, Abbie was neither surprised nor concerned when she noticed Seera’s eyes already ablaze with life though she’d taken none of the measures she’d employed previously. “So,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “What was all of that rigmarole before? Was there some purpose to all that pain or was it just a pointless rehashing of stuffs better off dead and buried?”

          Remaining silent for a few tense moments, Seera replied, “I am more than what I seem. And when you first brought me back, my power was weak. But now-“

          “Hey! I don’t have a lot of patience for the whole “my power is weak” game. Is that even a thing? Second verse, same as the first and all. But you called me here. Summoned me like some damn genie in a bottle. But the way you rub this lamp is by sending me some seriously jacked up dreams. I don’t know quite what to make of it.”

          Seera’s eyes trickled narrow streams of water; it was her way of crying, Abbie assumed, a little ashamed of herself. “No child,” she spoke aloud, “hold on to your anger; you’re entitled to it. These aren’t tears. And I don’t have full control over what I am, who I am. And what’s been churned up can’t so readily be held back. I’ve done my best to reach you, to warn you, both of you. These are waters, troubling waters. You see, it’s all too much and I can’t hold it all back now. She will see him and she’s coming. Unless-”

          Thinking for a moment, she finished the rest of her Seera’s sentence, devastated. “Unless…what? You become stone again? I'm to put you out of your misery? What about mine? Is that why you called me here? How many sacrifices will I be asked to make? Why? How much will I have to lose in order to win this war? Can’t people or whatever the hell you are just speak plainly? You’re as bad as Orion. You are talking in riddles, and I don’t understand,” Abbie interrupted.

          “Abbie, you know why. You’re a Witness. You’re one of the blessed ones, the called out ones as I was once. I’m a danger to your work and what you stand for. She need only step through the door to access this world. In the here and now. And you won’t be alone once I leave. You’re not alone right now.” Pressing her lips together, Abbie looked up to see Jenny and Big Ash enter the room.

          “And what about me, Seera? Where do I fit in? The name’s Jenny, the little sister with the big ole past. Am I just her sidekick?” Jenny demanded, approaching the figure cautiously. She’d planned on speaking with Seera without little Miss God’s Chosen One around, but by the look of things she didn’t know if she’d ever get another chance. And maybe Abbie needed to hear this anyways. Holding firmly onto Big Ash’s hand, she stepped further into the light and said, “I don’t understand either. If you knew all this, why didn’t you tell Abs earlier? Why did you give her the slightest bit of hope you’d come to stay?”

          “Jennifer. Jenny, you and I share so much in common, baby sister. You are righteousness walking.” Jenny smirked at this,” but Seera persisted, “You speak the truths no one else will. And there is no Witness without that truth, no matter how hard a truth it is.”

          Abbie smiled at this, adding, “Remember, Ephesians 6:14, Jenny, ‘Stand, therefore, with truth like a belt around your waist, righteousness like armor on your chest.’ Jenny, I can’t do this without you. You always have my back. I see you and I’m still so proud of you.”  

          Bowing her head a little, Jenny muttered, pleased, “Well, at least I’m no scarecrow. Phasers set to stun. Proceed.”

          “Abbie. Jenny. My sister and I share a soul. Light and dark, madness and purpose, creation and destruction. To bend or to break. Witch. Miracle. Cursed. Blessed. And on either side of it we could look through to the other. So I knew what Neata meant to do, means to do. I could see the shadows of her intent. The slaughter, the blood, all those lost souls, a few island survivors. Know that I am saying all that can be said given our time. The blood moon rises and the time is nigh. She only needs the door, the man bridging multiple worlds.”

          It was Abbie’s turn to smirk. “You mean Big Ash? You need only say the word. Jenny will have him out of here pronto.”

          “No. He is a window; he hears and sees what is unseen, what walks between worlds. But he is just a window. She needs the door and I think you know who that man is. You’ve known all this time. If you let me, I will show you.”

          Abbie nodded her consent. She felt a prick of pain at her temples, but then flashes of memory emerged. Slim fingers hungrily grasping hers as they walked into Purgatory. The go-between, reaching Jenny first, connecting both sisters before they could find their way back home again. The single catalyst coloring the way she now saw her destiny here in Sleepy Hollow and embraced the call. Crane. “But why, how? And right now when we’ve got so much mess going on between us. You want me to reach out to him right now?”

          “Like so many times in this fight, Abbie,” she reassured her. “You don’t have a choice. She’s going to come and it’ll take the both of you to stop her. There must be a point of contact between the two of you and you must use the petrifying power of the Gorgon’s head again.”

          “So you know about that? Of course, you went after the sword too. The Sword of Methuselah. It sure came in handy, though it cost a pound or two of flesh,” she said, shaking her head and thinking of Irving, “but Moloch did not rise.”

          “This I know too. And no, I did not enter the underground chamber looking for the sword. I was looking for sure death, a way to prevent Mami Wata from entering this plane through me. And those are some limits of my gift; I had no way of knowing you’d find me and try to restore me. But I can’t stay, I think you know that now. Find Crane, use the Gorgon’s head, and return me to my prison of stone. Save the world again, Abigail.”

          “But you are…were…so young. How can you give up your life just like that? We’ve got books, the internet, and Jenny’s connections. There has to be another way.”

          “Except that there isn’t. Don’t feel too badly for me. The decision I made once upon a time has granted me an obscenely long life. I’ve lived a full one. I’ve loved many men and women, and have been loved so well in return. Seera is one of many names I’ve answered to and if you don’t do as I say, it won’t be the last.” With a great wrenching sound, she twisted, bending forward at the waist as low as she could, and spat, “Don’t you know who you tempt?” At this the water streaming from her eyes grew to great gushes of water, beginning to flood the cell.

          “Abbie!” Jenny screamed, yanking her sister backwards. “Come on! We have to get out of here!” The threesome ran quickly into the adjoining room, Abbie turning away from the large window, the sight of Seera’s transformation too much for her to face just then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I was throwin' a little shade here myself. Queen Abbie is the voice of the people!


	7. The Light

_Mid-Atlantic, 1657_

          Sequestered away from the nighttime spectacle, Dema dozed in the chaplain’s vise-like arms, knowing the spirit would soon tire of the dance, would tire of collecting shadowed lives. She would then come to claim her, joining her soul with Neata’s, leaving Dema’s body little more than a husk, embracing power without limit. Dema still waited, the waiting her young body’s way of hopefully staying the creature who would snuff out her life, her energy pouring out like sand in a sieve. When the chaplain awoke, leaving to join the other lambs to slaughter, she knew that it was time to stop hiding.

          Dema stilled her thoughts and prepared to walk the last steps as herself for the first time this life. She smelled both human dung and animal dung and rotted food and strong drink. Swallowing back a gritty metallic taste, she ran her fingers over the weathered wood of the balustrade as she approached. Once she reached the upper deck, her eyes fleshed out the grisly mental pictures she’d divined of the scene. Dissolving the barriers of her mind, she invoked Mami Wata, allowing herself to be drawn into her deadly embrace. The spirit, in the guise of Neata, grasped Dema’s head with her strong hands and peered into the vast landscape of her mind, searching for the door. Her brown eyes became split onyx, set deep in her lovely face. “I’ve found him,” she sang. “And the only stench he’ll carry in his heart will be the ashes of his fellow Witness.” She did not notice the droplets of blood already dotting the bottom of Dema’s right leg.

* * *

          After Jenny’s van broke down on the side of the road, Ichabod finally hitched a ride, ignoring the lieutenant’s previous admonitions against strangers wielding candy. Thanking the kindly fellow with the few remaining teeth for transporting him safely to his destination, he made his way down to the subterranean cell, anxious to find Miss Mills and nervous about how she’d receive what he had to say. The thought of her shutting him out or pushing him away hurt him more than he dare commit to words. She’d become more than family. At least for him. What had she said? Blood is thicker? Well, she’d become home to him then, the connotation befitting a something he could pick up and convey on the inside, unlike a sterile house, seemingly planted and unmoving, yet given to shift during strong winds. The look in her eyes earlier that day was a blight to the flower of hope blooming in his chest. She, its blind caretaker, had watered and sunned it, trimming away the weeds of distrust and doubt. And what had he done in turn? He’d begun plucking its petals prematurely, fearful, doubting her patience, unwilling to let her attend to its ugly side, the drought of grief, the rot of routine.   He knew his lieutenant. She’d never actually tell him he’d lost his favor; she’d instead quietly pack up her possessions, relocating into a fairytale tower, a veritable _skyscraper_ , resolved to be both princess and her own rescuer, displacing a role for him in their story. _Princess Peach indeed._ All of that would have to wait until later, he knew, until they’d tackled this immediate threat, that infernal water spirit, linked to his fellow Witness.

          Once he reached the small room attached to the cell, Abbie raced up to meet him, her brown eyes probing him. “Crane, it’s getting late. You ask for an upgrade and then don’t answer your phone? Not okay…We needed you here.”

          Contrite, he lowered his head. “Apologies, Lieutenant, I left my phone back at the apartment. So eager was I to return to your side this evening.” His intense delivery, combined with Abbie’s silent glare, prompted an ill-timed giggle from Jenny. Ignoring her rudeness, Ichabod lowered his voice, “Miss Mills, we need to talk. Alone. I fear there is a new enemy we now face.” Surprised, he could see for himself that Seera was growing increasingly free of her petrification. The entire floor of the cell was covered in water. Standing apart from the other two, their heads tucked together, Crane shared his disturbing vision while Abbie shared her dreams and the less gruesome highlights of Seera’s stories. And though both could tell that the other wasn’t fully disclosing every detail, Ichabod’s eyebrows were wiggling their own SOS and Abbie kept nibbling at her lower lip, they were reluctant to push each other beyond their self-imposed boundaries. When she tried though, shutting her eyes tightly, Abbie could almost make out specifics in Ichabod’s vision, as if she’d been there. _Shadows._ _Coconut._ Mentally tying up the image in an airtight box, she waited for her panicked heartbeat to slow and explained, “And somehow, my ancestor Seera is at the center of it all. She’s connected to the creature you saw, the creature I…was? In my dream, that is. She says you’re the door and that together we have to somehow…”

          “Close the link,” Ichabod finished. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Lieutenant. “At least she’s contained for now.”

          “Dude,” Big Ash randomly piped up from his corner, “don’t you remember 'Waters of Mars?' I don’t think these doors will hold long, bruh.”

          “Omg!” Jenny breathed, “That episode was hands down the scariest one of the season! David Tennant fangirling montage time!” Big Ash leaned down, kissing her bare shoulder.

          “You’re referring to the tenth and best Doctor, I’m fairly certain. Is that the occasion when he visited the devil, Abaddon something or other? Or was that the one with the ambulatory angels of stone?” Ichabod sniffed. Reading BA’s stricken face, it rushed back to him. “My word,” he gasped, remembering the way the waters had seeped past all the alleged water proofing doors in that episode, “Lieutenant, we must act quickly, lest waters breach the confines of this very cell.”

          “Ash, Jenn, focus, you nerds! Crane, Abaddon is connected to the Torchwood Mythos, do try to keep up.  That will be the least of our concerns. Mami Wata steals souls and the worst part is by the time she’s through with you, you’ll want to offer it up. She knows your virtues and your vices, your wants, your needs, even that dirty part you’d rather keep to yourself, thank you very much. She’s an original member of the I Heart Moloch Club; the souls she doesn’t inhabit or store for herself, she delivers to Purgatory free of charge.”

          Behind the glass, Seera began calling out to Abbie, “Come to me, come to me now, daughter and bring your pretty man. We all want to stop her, but you must let her through the door first. Now! Come to me now!” Jumping to her feet, Abbie squared her shoulders and began walking into the adjoining room.

          “Abbie!” Ichabod and the others called. “Abbie,” Crane repeated, grabbing her arm. “Where are you going? How can you trust her? We must sit here and figure out our stratagem together.”

          “Crane!” she yelled, shaking him off and making her way to open the doors, “You’re just going to have to trust me and follow my lead this time. I’m going to need you. You too, Jenny. Ash, you stay here, just in case something goes wrong. I’m going to face my destiny head on or not at all. Crane, grab the head, yes, that head. Let’s go.”

          On the other side of the glass, the rock encasing Seera’s body had mostly broken down into rubble, floating in the water below her. Almost completely free, the family resemblance entirely evident, she aimed dusky amber eyes at the trio entering the room. Once Ichabod opened the door, it took all three of them, plus Big Ash’s leaning on the other side of it, to pull it closed. The fluorescent lights above their heads flickered a few times before shorting out, but the glow of Seera’s eyes provided enough dim light to see by. Water continued streaming in great bursts from the base of her figure, their depths just covering the tops of Abbie’s knees.

          “Alright, here’s the plan. Crane, I’ll need you to hold on to me as a point of contact. Hey, Crane, don’t drop the bag. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to look her directly in the eyes though, so I’ll be facing away from her. When the time is right, you’ll take out the Gorgon’s head. Jenny, I want you to hold on to my hand, to keep me here with all of you. There’s no time to get into it now, but I’m going to need you to do that. I don’t imagine it’ll be easy for me, for any of us. But we can do this.” As the three of them moved into position, “Steady, steady,” she warned. And her body struggled to maintain its balance in the shifting stream, her own eyes leaking something wet.

* * *

Kairos, _Mid-Atlantic, 1657 and Sleepy Hollow, present day_

          Mami Wata, increasing her clawed grip around Dema’s body, peered through her eyes into a room where Abbie, Jenny, and Crane readied themselves for war. Strands of hair began snaking around her head, the coiling tentacles further anchoring her sister in the past as she gazed into the present, fixated on the tall soldier with the sea blue eyes. Pouring part of her essence into the room, her spirit flooding the broken remains of the statue, the body of Neata remained on the ancient ship, completing its work. Looking down, the creature saw the stone’s crumbling foundations kept her bolted to the floor. Undaunted, she gathered winds in one large breath and stirred the waters inside the room, like thick stew in a black pot, creating a funnel around herself and the group. Behind the glass, Big Ash began singing prayers in his first tongue, afraid to look on with his spirit man, but needing to be the lookout Abbie’d asked him to be. He prayed that the Witnesses would stay on the right path, and he begged his gramma’s understanding that he’d chosen to stay by Jenny’s side as long as she’d let him.

          His Jenny was the first to speak; pursing her lips, she said, “Hey, snake mama, what’s your deal? How much we got to pay you to slither back where you came from? You should know the ass kicking’s free with proof of purchase, by the way.”

          “Jenny,” Abbie spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t poke the bear. You really don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

          “Oh, and you do,” Jenny sassed.

          Before the two sisters could pick up where their last fight left off, Mami Wata spoke, her voice filling their minds and the space inside the funnel.   “Settle, settle now. Church girls know the battle is fought on the field of the mind. _Dem 'ooman done fuh smaa't._ Try this on and see how it fits, my fighter, my Jenny. Look at me.” Though Jenny tried to resist, the authority in that voice demanded total obedience and she met her eyes finally, her proud chin trembling, the anger rolling off of her in great waves. “That’s it,” she encouraged lovingly, with empathy. “You have the power too. You’ve had it all along, both of you. But yours may be even greater than your sister’s. Embrace it, little sister, embrace your heritage.” A wish unspoken surfaced behind Jenny’s wide eyes. _The past rewritten._ A calling all her own. A legacy she could claim any time she wanted. A Marlboro butt smoking steadily outside the screen door. Strong legs never walking away, only staying. Four heads bowing around Thanksgiving dinner. Two brown girls shunning four white trees.  Able to possess without being possessed. A blonde man returning with his heart in his hands, eyes only for her. As the thoughts flickered behind her eyelids, Jenny felt her skin tighten and itch. Bony ridges pushed up through her spine. Her eyes flashed pale yellow, the pupils split, but she spoke up anyways, gritting through elongated teeth.

          “Is that the best you can do? That your hard sale? I’ve heard time share offers more attractive than that,” she snarled. Mami Wata nodded her head as if she approved and watched as Jenny bucked wildly, drenching both Crane and Abbie with salty spray. Dropping her sister’s hand as sharp claws replaced her own nail bitten ones, her bold claim lost some of its bluster. “Abbie,” she cried out desperately, “it hurts, oh God, it hurts!”

          “Leave her alone,” Abbie yelled, twisting around to face her. “You want me, don’t you? You came to me first. Come on!”

          “Lieutenant!” Crane whispered hoarsely, tucking her tighter into his chest, “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why stir up her rancor? We’ll attend to Jenny, never fear, but you must hold fast, stay the course, placing-”

          “As you wish,” Mami Wata smirked, replying to Abbie. “I’m sure the captain won’t mind.” The lieutenant began squirming inside the curve of Crane’s arm as he struggled to hold on to her. Her jeans ripped free of their seams as her legs fused into one long smoothly muscled tail.

          “Crane!” she screeched, cutting off a sob. “Don’t drop me or that bag. You’ve got to hold on to me.”

          “You are rather slippery at the moment, but I will continue to concede to your lead on this. Miss Mills, you’ll certainly need to do your part,” he gasped. “Place both your arms around my neck now. I don’t see why we couldn’t just…” As the two dithered back and forth, the energy in the room shifted, like the lifting of a veil, and the original water witch realized they were being watched. Perceiving Big Ash’s quasi presence in the space, she honed in on him, reading his frustration, relishing his pain.

          “I can see you, son of Moneto, lover of the stronger one, the anchor,” she said, rolling the last consonant. “You have no place here and I will drink you down, rich like cream. Your people know me as Kinepikwa and I will touch your soul this day.” Reaching out, like so many outstretched tentacles, the shadow of her mind crossed his and she drained him hungrily, leaving behind a hollowed shell. His last thought was of his Jenny, teasing him, pulling him close, her hair tumbling over both shoulders, forming a curtain round his head.

          “Neata! Neata!” Dema called out, and the spirit shifted her focus again, turning away from the room, turning inside herself to face her younger sister. The sky above the ship was still now, the storm over, and Mami Wata’s work was almost done. She readied herself to leave the old world finally, and clasping Dema still tighter, she stared into her eyes, calling home the other half of her promised soul. “Sister,” she said, speaking to the creature and the woman inside, “you cannot take my soul.”

          “It will not hurt to plead for your life, Dema, but it is a wasted effort. You will be born again with no memory of this one. You will not have long to wait.”

          “No,” Dema repeated. “You fail to understand. First comes the blood,” she continued, smiling down at herself.

          Arching away from her, Mami Wata looked at her blankly, then looked up at the moon. “No!” she cried, realizing then, her voice a dry rattle. Her power was no match for the moment Dema walked in her womanhood, under the red moon, able to manipulate life and death. The moon was both witness and mirror, recording and reflecting the eternal miracle. “You cannot take my soul,” she said, “because I freely give it.”

          Dema’s spirit rose up and left her body, fusing with the Mami Wata and Neata for always. One soul, one spirit, one dark, one light. Old, young, and ageless. Maddening, groundless, boundless, fertile and free, rootless, untameable, cyclical. Like the sea, she held many natures, many forms, many names. Like the woman, she would love and be loved. Like the creature, she would destroy and be destroyed.

* * *

 

          Inside the cell, the funnel collapsed and the waters began to subside. Jenny’s eyes returned to their normal color, her nails receded, and the ridges on her back dissolved. Catching her breath, she stood up, reaching for her sister. Abbie’s tail retracted and her brown legs appeared, long for her height, they dangled beneath her partner’s arm. Unlocking her arms from about Ichabod’s neck, she said, “Crane. You can put me down now.”

          “Right,” Crane said, averting his eyes. “Are you quite alright, Abbie? Jenny?” They both did their best to reassure him. Without his permission, Jenny began removing Crane’s coat, helping her sister into the oversized garment. She tried her level best not to upset their previous configuration but gave up when one sleeve caught on Crane’s elbow. She folded back the sleeves and secured a few buttons before Abbie waved her off. When Abbie spied Big Ash’s hulk slumped over in the other room, she felt sucker punched in the gut, but her cop’s instincts kicked in. Quickly spinning around to face the others, she reasoned, _Later. This may not be over. We’ll see to him later._

          Before them stood Seera Dixon. Though she was dressed in the clothing of her day, something in the way she held herself suggested she was born of no particular time but had simply always been there. Sloshing through the shallow water, she made her way over to them, stopping about a foot away, as if she didn’t trust herself. She smiled, her lips barely lifting at the corners. Seera met Abbie's cool stare. “It’s time.”

          “You’re sure there’s no other way?” Abbie asked.

          Jenny looked over at Abbie with wide eyes. “You can’t honestly be serious, Abs. Maybe you don’t mind being the little mermaid, but I was well on my way to the bayou. Oh, like that’s fair. You’re Ariel, I’m Tick Tock, the croc. Look, I don’t like admitting this, but I’m afraid.”

          “And rightly so, Jenny,” Seera replied. “Mami Wata isn’t dead; she, it, I can’t be killed. Neither can Neata. But we can be trapped, and you must do it now before she makes her way back to the surface. I’m in control of the carriage ride for now, but…”

          “She’s waiting to take the reins,” Crane finished. “But how? But why?”

          “You know you’re not going to get an answer to that, right?" Abbie broke in.      

          “Abbie and Jenny,” Seera began, “I haven’t had the chance to get to know you as I’d like, but I want you to know how proud I am to be one of many ties to your history. You two are special, more than you know. Your family is special, set apart, especially us women. Something living runs through your veins and once you master it, you’ll be more than formidable. You’ll be unstoppable. And you there, Ichabod Crane. Do right by my Abbie. You are both called to a higher purpose, but your feet are made of clay. Her heart is made of glass.”

          With a barely perceptible nod of his head, Crane spun on his heel and addressed the sisters, “Ladies, let’s do this.”

          “Wait,” Seera called, her eyes shining with trapped tears. “One more thing, and I hate to lay this on you girls. All those years ago when I made my way down into the Gorgon’s lair, I was carrying what appeared to be a lantern. But it wasn’t a lantern at all. We spirits of the waters often carry mirrors, combs, or shells. I’ve even heard tell of a mermaid’s purse.”

          “As charming as these details are, madam, please keep them concise,” Crane spoke, “as I fear the carriage driver may try to change seats. And I know of no other stratagem, no plan B, as it were.”

          “Patience, old man,” Seera clucked. “This is important to your larger purpose. Your plan A if you will. Those items are enchanted; they are the only way to retrieve certain souls from Purgatory.”

          “Certain souls?” Jenny asked, squinting her eyes. “What do you mean, certain souls?”

          “Jenny, now listen to me carefully. Those souls are those who…those whose lives have been forfeited to the spirit. Unfaithful men who spurn the fidelity of their ghostly lovers, those desperate enough to offer their souls in exchange for their hearts’ desires, petty women bartering their insides for prettier outsides, victims or trophies for the monster’s ravenous appetites. It often depends on the form we take. Inside my lantern I carried the souls of those sacrificed on the journey here. On both sides of the veil.” She paused, willing the younger Mills sister to understand the gravity of what she’d just shared. Jenny, comprehension dawning, shut her eyes, then looked up at her with dead eyes. “Jenny, listen, it’s not too late. You can save him; it’ll take the three of you to manage it. Jenny, you are the anchor; Ichabod, you are the door; and Abbie is the key. But first you must find the lantern. You must work quickly, before midnight of the third day, or his soul will remain in Purgatory until the very end of days.”

          “It would seem our work is still quite cut out for us. Jenny, I share my deepest sympathies. I consider Big Ash a highly esteemed colleague, mechanic, huntsman, gamer, and moreover a friend. I can safely speak for your sister,” here Ichabod verified his statements with a firm nod from Abbie, “that we pledge our fealty to the task set before us. I suspect our friend Mr. Hawley may know the whereabouts of the missing lantern and could well know how to use it to our purpose as well.”

          Wiping hot tears from her face, Jenny nodded and clasped Abbie’s hand tightly, connecting her sister to the present. They were now ready to say a bittersweet and entirely necessary goodbye to one more tie to their past. Standing on her tiptoes, Abbie whispered into Ichabod’s ear, the sensation dotting the tips pink. “Crane, I still don’t want to watch her go. Just hold on to me, please.”

          “I see no reason to detour from our plans, lieutenant,” he said, admiring his jacket on her tiny frame and grasping her about the waist once more. “Madam Seera, on behalf of Team Witness, thank you for your sacrifice and commitment to our cause. It’s been…real…weird.” Seera bowed her head, backing away from the trio, until she hit the far wall.

          “I’m ready,” she said. “Goodbye.”

          “Now, Crane!” Abbie called. Crane released her for a moment, closed his eyes and reaching into the bag, pulled out the Gorgon’s head. Abbie threw both arms around his waist and lay her face on his chest. Turning away, Jenny squeezed Abbie’s hand even harder. Beginning at her feet, Seera’s body began to harden, turning from flesh into stone again. Abbie felt Jenny let go of her hand. “How long does this take?” she asked, her eyes still shut.

          “The process should be instantaneous,” Crane responded, eyes clinched shut as well. “But I could just place the decapitated Gorgon head back into the parcel from whence it came.”

          “Why don’t you do that?” she snapped. The severed head secured in its bag, Abbie and Crane looked over at the statue of Seera Dixon. “I should get a sign made. Beware of family tree.” Looking over at Crane, she sighed. “Poor choice of words, I guess,” begging his pardon with her eyes.

          “Not really, Miss Mills. I’m fairly certain my rather bare family tree contains no other surprises of the macabre variety. At least I should hope not. And you need not tread precariously regarding my feelings about the matter either. I think my small group leader would encourage mutual disclosure with my closest friend,” he said smiling broadly.

          “Great, Crane. Good talk. Not to cut you off, but where’s Jenny?” Abbie cut in. The two conducted a preliminary search; she was nowhere to be found within or without the adjoining rooms of the Masonic cell. After they’d carefully lowered Big Ash onto the floor and covered him with a blanket, Abbie said, “I know my sister, Crane, and I’ll bet my last paycheck she’s going to see a man about a lantern. We should track down Hawley. She already has a head start and she’s going to be beating the war drums. We’d better find him first. I think we should keep this thing with Big Ash on the low until we find a way to revive him.”

          “I agree, lieutenant. I too shall be keeping it on the low. Only those in our inner circle shall be made privy. Shall we make our way to the apartment, to plan and regroup, recharging our personal and cellular batteries?”

          “Sounds like a plan. Just got to make a quick stop at the archives. Do a little soul searching.” She waited a beat. “Too soon?”

          Crane groaned, “I shall ignore your paltry jest, but I must inquire. Shall we sojourn there now, you clad in little more than my coat and your short booties? Really, Lieutenant? You don’t think young Master Morales will be scandalized should he see you? Hmm, well then.” He paused, “Upon a second consideration, I’m right behind you, Miss Mills. Where you lead, I will forever follow.” He bowed low, extending his hand towards hers. Smiling, Abbie took it, her eyes warm and bright once again and together they made their way down the dark corridors into the light, secure in their bond. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it; I wanted to keep going, but this one has taken over my life for the past week. I write in feverish bursts, so I'm feeling slightly depleted for now, but...I think there's a few more stories here yet. What do you think?
> 
> DizzyChickStar

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments, especially pertaining to content, word choice, etc. This is my first piece of fiction and I am my own editor, so if you notice errors, kindly let me know. If you have questions, I will answer them!


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